


A Small Misunderstanding

by Hyliare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Blushing, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Feelings of Inadequacy, First Time, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Knotting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Omegaverse, Physically Awkward Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Premature Ejaculation, Red Pants, Reference to Pornography, References to Underwear-Sniffing, Rimming, Scenting, Sex Toys, Small Penis, Trope Subversion, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyliare/pseuds/Hyliare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a virgin omega bonded to his flatmate, John Watson. Sex does alarm him, just a little bit, but he'd like that to change. John Watson is a very patient alpha. He loves Sherlock, sex or none, but is happy to help his mate learn the ins and outs of physical relationships. At the same time, Sherlock helps John learn about his own sexual quirks.</p><p>This story offers a look in at a slightly unconventional relationship and explores gender roles and sexual expectations in omega verse, while also serving up a healthy dose of explicit kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bbcatemysoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcatemysoul/gifts).



> I began this story with the intention of just writing a fluff fic/PWP for bbcatemysoul, who had supplied a nice list of things (cough, kinks) she likes to read. I enjoy her blog and wanted to give back. It sort of got away from me, though...
> 
> I enjoyed writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

John Watson grunted around the knuckles in his teeth as he reached a barely-satisfying orgasm as the video on his laptop went dark. He squeezed himself through his pants, wet and stiff at the same time, and let loose a very long sigh.

His relationship with Sherlock was unorthodox—it always had been; the shift from blogger and detective to alpha and omega hadn’t magically changed the order of things.

Sherlock craved his alpha’s scent in times of intense concentration. John had discovered that one evening when Lestrade was called away early from their night out at the pub. He’d walked in on Sherlock scenting the cushion of his chair, right where his neck and hairline brushed most against the fabric. Sherlock had ordered him seated, scented his _actual_ neck, and had then stuffed his face unceremoniously between his alpha’s denim-clad legs. Since John was not always available (or willing) to bare his groin for Sherlock’s cock-tease snuffling in the name of deduction, they had a pair of red Y-fronts that John had been more or less ordered to “keep well-cared for.”

Most pairs bonded during a mating—their first, or their third, or their fiftieth.

They had bonded fully clothed, shirts tugged roughly out of the way of questing teeth and warm, gently laving tongues. He and Sherlock had never even gotten off together, unless John counted the particularly passionate snog in the back of one of Mycroft’s black saloons where Sherlock had come in his pants and then shoved John away so hard he’d nearly cracked the bulletproof glass with his skull.

John _did_ count that, actually. Usually. Even though he’d started laughing when he’d realized what had caused the sharp change in demeanour, and hadn’t had the heart to finish himself off. He wasn’t counting it at the moment, though, because he was trying to be bitter, and it was hard to be bitter when he remembered the bright pink blush that had overtaken his virgin omega’s mortified face. Sherlock was so _cute_ —Frustrating. Sherlock was so _frustrating_.

But John could handle it. John was patient. He’d waited over a year to go from “friends” to colleagues to _actual_ friends to “friends” again, before they’d finally crossed the threshold into lovers. He could wait longer for that title to move from theoretical to experimental, and he could wait longer _still_ for their relationship to solidify enough that he could broach the subject of his secret kink.

…As if anything were ever a secret to Sherlock Holmes.

He ran his hand over his face, flexing the bitten joints before he clicked his laptop shut.

Sherlock knew. Of course he knew. Even if he hadn’t deduced it from the way John spread jam on his toast in the morning, he freely admitted to browsing his alpha’s Internet history like it was an award-winning anthology. John could delete the latest entries, yes, but he was pretty certain that doing so would be more akin to dog-earing the pages than ripping them out.

It would be a giant, flashing, “look here!” It would a humongous arrow, with fairy lights, pointed at every ridiculous title uncovered by Sherlock’s sleuthing.

 _Mount Your Master_  
Alpha Sluts 12  
Kinky Omega Makes Mate Moan  
Tops with Toys II: Measuring Up

So he left them.

So Sherlock _knew_ , and he never said a bloody word. John didn’t know if that was preferable or not. It was a good thing, at least, that his mate wasn’t disgusted enough to block the sites (he was almost 100% sure Sherlock knew how, or could learn in a matter of hours), but a small part of him craved the fight, the confrontation, the omega’s derisive snarl and the curl of his plump lips.

He shuddered, palming the damp cotton over his softened cock. It was just a filthy little…thing, a harmless fetish that would exist, ignored, until whatever cross-wired hormones were causing it faded out of his aging bloodstream. John scoffed at the thought and wrestled off the red pants, tossing them in the general direction of his dirty laundry (though they were only ever washed by mistake). He needed a shower.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“I thought I might stop taking suppressants, if you were amenable.”

Of all the first-sentences-of-the-day in their relationship, John knew it wasn’t the strangest. Far from it. That didn’t stop him from furrowing his brow. He finished filling the kettle and set it back on its base, then slowly turned to face the sheet-clad omega in the centre of the doorway. The tone Sherlock had used was perfectly off the cuff. His chin was up, back straight (he always managed to look _regal_ in nothing but his crumpled bed linens, which John found more hysterical than envious), and he had cocked his head _just_ so, like it was the culminating statement of a very long conversation John had not been privy to.

The alpha wet his lips and nodded. “…All right.”

It was not a simple, off the cuff statement, appearances be damned. Sherlock probably _had_ had a very long conversation that John wasn’t privy to. That was something they’d talked about—“You can’t just supply my side of the conversation.” “Why not? I can deduce exactly what you’ll say.” “No,” “Yes,” “you” “I” “can’t.” “can.” “…That doesn’t count. And no, you _can’t_.”—but that Sherlock still hadn’t quite accepted.

So he’d most likely had the conversation, covered all of his bases regarding various topics using evidentiary support, and had decided that John Watson would, in fact, be amenable.

John was being informed as a formality. He just hoped, for both their sakes, that “I might stop taking them,” didn’t mean, “I stopped taking them approximately two months ago.”

“All right,” he repeated, scratching delicately at his nose, “I’m…yeah, I’m amenable. Did you have a plan for…leading up to it?” The alpha tilted his own head. It was euphemistic, which Sherlock didn’t often care for, but John wanted to tread lightly.

They hadn’t talked about Sherlock’s virginity since their bonding, since the detective had taken a single deep breath and stated in no uncertain terms that although he had come to the conclusion that he loved John as much as any person could love anything, he wasn’t ready.

And that sex _did_ alarm him, just a little bit.

And that John could never, _ever_ tell Mycroft.

John had found out later that before the admission, Sherlock tore through the flat and removed no fewer than a dozen audio bugs. Most, apparently, had already been deactivated. John hadn’t found that comforting.

He blinked back to the moment at hand, gazing at his mate across the kitchen table.

Going off suppressants meant going into heat, and going into heat meant losing one’s virginity. It was more or less necessary. John waited, not backing down from Sherlock’s stare, for an answer. Finally, the man glanced away.

“Of course I have a plan.”

“Okay, good. Whatever you want to do, Sherlock. However you want to do it.”

John didn’t bother repeating what he’d said after the bonding—he knew Sherlock remembered every single word, and their precise intonation. Whether he believed any of them…another thing altogether.

John had said it was fine, _all_ fine, and that _if_ Sherlock was ever ready, he’d be around. If Sherlock was _never_ ready, he’d be around anyway. Simple as that. He’d got suppressants of his own, just to even out his mood, simple as that. There’d been masturbation, then there’d been the red pants and masturbation, and he was (mostly) content with being able to cuddle his omega when he was in a horizontal thinking position, and kiss him pertly on the mouth, and very occasionally snog him in the back seats of glossy black cars. _Simple as that_.

Any discontent was purely biological, and John, frankly, found it every bit as annoying as Sherlock did. He’d been considering upping his dosage.

Only, now, he apparently wouldn’t have to. And that was…fine.

Sherlock sniffed and shrugged the crisp sheet up higher onto his shoulders. “You should take off your clothes. Step one is acclimatisation. You should also stop taking _your_ medication, or the whole effort will be rather pointless.”

John bit his tongue on saying “no, it won’t,” since he didn’t want to put Sherlock off. He could double his dose and still want to fuck his omega through the mattress during a heat. Triple it, maybe. He felt his blood pumping just from the idea. John nodded, prim, and finally remembered to flick on the kettle behind him.

“Be prepared for me to kiss you at any moment. I plan to do so whenever the feeling strikes me.”

“I…can do that, yes.”

“And if I want to smell you, or touch you. I’m going to do that, too.”

“Never stopped you before.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “And after we… _fuck_ …you can _never_ refer to it as your having ‘taken my virginity.’ It’s a ridiculous concept.”

There was a short moment where his brain stuttered over Sherlock saying “fuck.” It was a sweet stutter, but it had made the rest of the sentence sound like a skipping record. John drew back an inch. “Sorry?”

“I said virginity is a ridiculousconcept and I won’t have you prescribing it any inane _value_ after the fact. I am not ‘ _giving’_ myself to you, I’m merely ready to have sex. With you. Now.”

“Now?”

“ _Soon_ ,” the brunet clarified, with a blush that John was pleased to see spread over his bare chest, as well. “Do you agree to my terms?”

“Of course, Sherlock. I mean, you’re right, it’s sort of a silly concept…”

He watched Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “‘But?’”

“But, you know, there’s nothing wrong with it being special, _if_ you want it to be. It just ought to be your decision, that’s all. Whether you want it to be a…a _thing_ or not, it’s up to you.”

“A _thing_.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, stretching on into almost a minute of silence. His brows twitched once, at the end, as he came to a decision. “It’s going to be special, obviously. It’s going to be with _you_. It will be my first time having sex with _you_. The fact that I’ve not had sex with anyone _else_ is entirely inconsequential. Of course it will be special. It’s you, John.”

And John couldn’t help but grin, water starting to gurgle behind him. “That’s…You’re right. You’re right, and I’m not surprised.”

“Besides, I have the utmost faith in your abilities. Your clothes?”

He stripped off his striped jumper and tugged up the vest beneath it as the kettle clicked itself off. His thumbs were hooked into the band of his boxer-briefs when he paused. “Er…Have you told Mrs Hudson we’re going to be…acclimatising?”

“Yes. She asked why I wanted to turn the heat up in the flat.”

“And you told her exactly why.”

“She asked if I’d still be taking birth control…She really likes the idea of being a _nanny_.”

“Oh, God.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“So you aren’t—”

“Absolutely not.” The pointed widening of the omega’s eyes left no room for discussion—for the time being. One hurdle at a time…Not that John thought of being childless as a “hurdle.” He honestly hadn’t even considered the possibility. Sherlock had never struck him as the nurturing type, disenchanted with his sex as he was. And they were both getting older…He shook his head to clear the ramble of thoughts.

“Right.” John stepped out of his pants and tossed them down the hallway toward the bedroom before he returned to make up a cup of coffee. He was adding a splash of milk when he noticed Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, and still grasping the sheet.

The sheet. _That_ was hardly fair. There _he_ was, hanging free, slightly wide stance, being extra careful when he poured boiling water, and Sherlock was still dressed for a toga party.

“Is that coming off, then?”

“…”

John could have predicted a sigh or a smirk or a roll of the eyes. He couldn’t have predicted what _did_ happen:

Sherlock flushed red again and opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head, turning an about-face to walk back into their bedroom. He shut the door behind him.

“…All right.”

When his mate emerged an hour later, finally sans sheet, John was no closer to figuring out the reaction. He struck it from his mind and enjoyed having Sherlock curled up against his chest on the sofa as he thought about how to structure the blog write-up of their latest case.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Step two included studying anatomy. In books and in person. Sherlock sat cross-legged and nude in the centre of the coffee table (which he’d be cleaning later, at John’s insistence) with a thick text laying cracked open in his lap. He traced his finger along the diagram on the page, following the length of the illustration, “male alpha penis [aroused],” and the curve of the engorged knot at the base.

“Up to three inches in diameter. Seems a bit excessive…How big is yours?”

John paused with his tea halfway to his lips, and frowned. “It’s not exactly easy to measure.”

“ _Hm_. Because stopping to measure would ‘ruin the moment’?”

“…No, actually. Because it’s only at its biggest when it’s physically locked in someone’s body. They probably used some sort of…electrical stimulation, or something, to induce swelling and collect those data points.”

The little grin that appeared on his mate’s face felt like a cold raindrop sneaking down the back of John’s warmest coat. “ _No_. No, Sherlock.”

It switched immediately to an indignant pout. “How will I prepare if I don’t know what I’m in for?”

“You don’t have to prepare; your body is _built_ for it. I’ve never even _heard_ of someone being hurt from a normal, bonded knotting. Not even an urban legend about it.” He gave a tiny smirk as he sipped his tea. “Think of it as a surprise.”

“A surprise that gets forced into my body and trapped there for…upwards of _ten minutes?_ ”

“We’ll make sure you have something to read.” Though honestly, if there was one thing John suspected, it was that Sherlock wasn’t going to need _any_ extra distractions during his heat—practically his _first_ heat, to hear the detective tell it. He’d been on suppressants since his teen years. John set down his mug and leaned forward. “What’s that say about omegas, then?”

Sherlock turned the page, scanned it quickly, and snorted. “The usual. Mechanics of lubrication, capacity for intense orgasm, _fertility_.” He glanced down again and his expression went pinched. “Metrics.” The passages on omega anatomy were skipped in a flurry of slapping hands.

One of John’s brows rose, but he said nothing. As long as Sherlock read them later (and, really, John guessed his mate already had and was simply being his usual brand of dramatic), it wasn’t a big concern. Plus, if there was ever a person who could make even somewhat accurate deductions about their internal workings by staring at their _external_ ones, it was Sherlock Holmes.

“Anatomy lesson over, then…What’s step three?”

“The anatomy lesson is _not_ over. Let me examine your testicles.”

John set down his tea with a sigh and a begrudging grin. “You really know how to sweet talk me.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“White Tantrism.”

“…Sorry?”

“Step four.”

“All right…What?”

Sherlock’s shoulders rose and fell like a wave crashing over a particularly depressing beach, light eyes rolling hard enough that John spied a little twitch in the omega’s cheek. The man winced. John smirked.

“Did that hur—”

“Shut up. _White Tantrism_ is a foolish neo-Gnostic quasi-sexual activity involving the ‘transfer of spiritual energies.’ It is also step four.”

“So, it’s like tantric sex?”

“I am purposeful avoiding the use of the word.”

“Mmmhm. Where did you read up on this, then?”

His omega pursed his lips lightly, starting toward the bedroom.

“Sherlock?”

“…I didn’t. Not entirely. It was a suggestion from…someone.”

“Ah.”

“Are you coming?”

John’s journal found itself folded and tossed aside with absolutely no concern for paper cuts as John sprang up to follow. Sherlock had carefully arranged himself in bed, on his side. He was facing the far wall, and John could hardly be disappointed in the view.

“So. How do you want to…?”

“Get on the bed.”

John could sense a bit of faked confidence, but being ordered into bed by his omega, false bravado or not, was…stirring. He started forward but halted, hand reaching out—“No. Leave the light off.”

“Sun’s going down soon.”

“I know.”

“…Okay.”

It was…Well, John filed it away for later. He didn’t _want_ to file it away; he would rather address it just then, but past experience had told him that interrupting Sherlock’s experiments in favour of discussing intangible things like emotions could be…volatile. It was better to strike with cold iron, to ease into it when the omega was content, and couldn’t use a “ruined” experiment as an excuse to dismiss the conversation.

He wet his lips as he settled alongside his mate, resting his palm on the hard curve of a pale hip. “I’ll just have to see my fill of you before then, I suppose…Or try to. I think it’s impossible. I think I could look at you for a week straight, not glance at a _single_ other thing, and still not get tired of telling you how beautiful you are to me.”

“ _John_.”

John smiled. That was it—Sherlock’s ‘praise’ voice, grating with embarrassment and exasperation, somewhat tragic disbelief, and not a small amount of pleasure. “It’s like every time I see you, there’s something new that catches my eye. Some new way the light highlights, or the shadows make a feature stand out. You’re so complex, in so many ways. I love every one of them. I love _you_.”

“That’s not…”

“Hm?”

“That is _not_ how this is supposed to go.”

“Sorry,” came out, without John sounding sorry at all. His smile grew and he rubbed up and down his mate’s side in a single stroke. “Not everything has to be planned _that_ firmly, Sherlock. Not that I mind. Tell me how it’s supposed to go. Tell me what to do.”

The breath the omega drew in beneath his alpha’s hand was much less steady than it sounded. It felt more like a shudder—one John shared. “Tell me,” he repeated, because “order me” would be showing a hand he wasn’t yet ready to go all-in with.

“…I don’t want to be penetrated. Not now. But I want…I want your arms around me, your warmth and your scent. I want to be able to feel your heart beat against my back, I want you that close to me.”

“Yes.”

“ _And_ …I…And _if_ , or… _when_ you get an erection, I want you to put it between my legs. Intercrural, it’s called. It was very popular with the ancient Greeks…ostensibly.”

“Move them apart, then.”

Sherlock head turned like an owl’s to fix John with an equally-owlish look, brows knit together. “Now? Already?”

“Already. I love hearing you talk like that.”

“About Greek history?”

“About me, what you want from me. It makes me feel loved.”

“You _are_ loved—”

“I know. And…I admit, I also like the way you say ‘erection.’ Your voice is sexy, and I like hearing it say sexy words.”

“ _John_.”

“I love you, too. Your legs?”

Sherlock scoffed and muttered something about “insatiable alpha libidos,” and something else that disagreed with the assessment of “erection” as a “sexy word,” but he raised his right leg all the same. John’s hand swept from the outside of his mate’s thigh to the inner portion, and he relished in the soft gasp that interrupted Sherlock’s grumbling. He shifted toward the centre of the bed, carefully edging his hips closer, until he could use a gentle thrust to bounce his cock into place. It nested perfectly in the crux of Sherlock’s legs and arse and the soft, vestigial skin where omegas had once housed obsolete testes (but that now, empty, functioned only as a special erogenous zone in the males of the sex).

“ _Mmn_.”

“Not bad, then…?”

John could see the very edge of Sherlock’s blush, flushed red along the prominent curve of the omega’s cheek as he’d turned to hide his face in the bed sheets.

“Not…No. It’s good.”

“ _You’re_ good.”

“Ugh!”

“It’s the truth.”

Sherlock just shook his head until his hair was made wild enough to obscure his colour (four shakes). “Your arms…—Put your arms around me, like I said.”

“Of course.” John snuck his left arm down and under, content to let his elbow remain sandwiched between Sherlock and the mattress as he traced with his fingers from navel to nipple to neck. John’s touch ghosted over Sherlock’s collar bone, up to caress the bottom ridge of his jaw.

“…Are you going to be done any time soon?”

“You said it’s about being close. Is this too close?”

Then the alpha slipped his right arm into the fray, too. He swept it over Sherlock’s chest until his palm hovered just over his omega’s sternum and heart. “I like being able to touch you.”

The hand on Sherlock’s neck made a small circle, with its middle and ring fingers, around the permanent mark of his bond bite. Sherlock tilted gently into the pressure. “It’s a biological imperative,” he said. “You could hardly expect to reproduce without touching your mate.”

“I think it’s more than that. I just like touching you. Anywhere, anytime. Fully dressed or in that bloody sheet. And…I always wanted to, you know. Before. So, I don’t think it’s pure biology. I said before that I like looking at you, right? That I love it.”

“…Yes.”

“Well, I love you with every one of my senses. Sight, sound, touch…” John leaned forward to press his body along Sherlock’s, to push his front into his mate’s back and bury his nose in the omega’s neck. “Scent, and taste.” He drew in a deep breath at the base of Sherlock’s skull, exhaling slowly as his arms tightened into a proper hug. “Every one.”

“There are more than five, you know.”

“Mmmhm. Every one of them. Even the ones I didn’t bother naming, because unlike some of the _beloved_ men in this flat, I know when being pedantic doesn’t help the point you’re making. Wanker.”

“Beloved wanker?”

“ _Ostensibly_.”

Sherlock smiled despite himself—John could _sense_ it, thanks—and squeezed his thighs together. It earned him a moan from his alpha, trailing off into a swear.

The light in the room had started to fade, making the glow from the street lamps outside bright and colourful by comparison. John sighed into the back of a pale shoulder, hands trailing lower down Sherlock’s chest. Two sets of long fingers caught his own near the bony protrusions of Sherlock’s pelvis. They lifted his touch higher again, slid his warm palms over the shallow ridges of four or five ribs. It wasn’t until the bedroom had gone fully dark that John tried again, stroking over a flat stomach. He stilled his hands when Sherlock stiffened.

John took the time to count three deep breaths, before he asked it—the question he wasn’t precisely sure he wanted answered: “What about this makes you nervous?”

“What makes you think—”

“ _Sherlock_.”

Silence hovered between them for nearly a full minute, the muscles around Sherlock’s stomach still clenched tight under John’s hands. The omega’s entire body was tense, including the thighs on either side of John’s lagging erection. John was trying to mentally prepare his next question (really just a re-phrasing of the first) when Sherlock spoke.

“There are…parts of my body I would rather not share. At this time.”

“…”

Well, it was an answer. It was a bit vague, but it was an answer. And it didn’t take a genius to deduce which part, specifically, that Sherlock was referring to. It _probably_ didn’t take a genius to deduce _why_ he was referring to that part, either. John gave it a shot.

He considered the facts, or his perception of them.

They had been more or less constantly nude in each other’s presence for over a week. During that week, Sherlock had, on more than one occasion, acted strangely (stroppy) for seemingly no reason. The first time had been with the sheet. He hadn’t wanted to drop it, despite demanding John’s nakedness immediately, but he’d been fine abandoning it _later_. He’d repeated that particular “genre” of tantrum two more times, hogging the covers in the morning and fetching a robe because he was “just about to run a bath” that had never, actually, been run (Sherlock had taken a shower almost three hours after the fact).

Then there was the comparatively-tiny snit with the anatomy books. With the _omega_ section of the anatomy books. With the “metrics.” John had seen Sherlock glare at the book no fewer than four times in his peripheral vision.

It didn’t take a genius, then, assuming he was right. And if he _was_ right, he’d be correct, but confused.

John slid his hands back up his mate’s chest and hugged him, solidly, to the count of five. He had to be patient, with this. He had to be as patient as he’d promised to be.

“I’ve seen your penis already, you know. Touching it isn’t going to change my mind about how much I love you.”

“I _know_ that.”

There was a waver in Sherlock’s voice. It was barely there under the thick layer of derision, but John didn’t like the sound of it. He nosed at Sherlock’s bond bite again, focused on calming him down before they used any more words. Once John’s cock was no longer in a fleshy guillotine between his mate’s thighs and the rise and fall of the chest beneath his hands was smooth and relatively normal-paced, John tried again. He used a firm voice, on the border somewhere between “parent” and “superior officer.”

“I can’t understand if you don’t tell me, Sherlock. We can’t even _begin_ to address the issue if only one of us knows what it is.”

“…I know that.”

Sherlock’s voice was smaller, and the waver sat closer to the surface; it was a splash instead of a ripple. John tightened his embrace—just enough to keep Sherlock from pulling away both physically and mentally. He waited. John waited in the dark room with his head to the back of his mate’s neck, softly scenting it each minute, and occasionally running his tongue over the mark on its side. He’d done it nearly a dozen times before Sherlock took a measured breath.

“I’ve been concerned about…my…size. When erect.”

“What about it?”

Silence spread itself out again like a miasma, and although John had promised patience, he wanted to sort things out before the sun rose again. He gave his omega a nudge.

“You’ve…seen me. You’ve seen _it_. Well, that’s…That’s it. That’s all there is. It doesn’t really get…bigger.”

“…Is that all?”

“ _Yes_ , that’s all, that’s what I just—”

“Hup! I mean is that the _only_ problem, Sherlock. Is that _all_ you’re worried about? That you have a beautiful, statuesque penis?”

“…‘Statuesque’?”

“Michelangelo’s _David_? No? Never mind. Sherlock, I don’t care if you’re a ‘show-er’ or what the fuck ever. I wouldn’t care if you were a single bloody inch long.”

“It’s _3.2_ inches.”

“Well, I think 3.2 sounds perfect.”

At that, Sherlock flung John’s hands away, but didn’t yet move their bodies apart. “How could you _possibly?_ ”

John was stunned for a moment, arms stuck in stiff positions above his mate’s skin. He hadn’t been expecting that amount of venom. He certainly hadn’t been expecting that amount of venom directed at _him_ , instead of inward (which, John had learned, was generally the way Sherlock’s anger pointed). “What on Earth’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means don’t _lie_ to me, John Watson.” Sherlock did move then, shifting toward the far side of their bed. It broke their connection and John’s own penis felt a terrible disappointment at the sudden cold.

“But I’m not—Ah. _Ah_. It’s…Sherlock, no. I know what you’re thinking.”

He could see the shadowy curls on his mate’s head bounce as Sherlock tossed back what could be safely assumed a glare. “ _Do_ you.”

“I _do_ , actually, yeah. You’re thinking about the…It’s the…the…” John made a vague gesture with his hand, pursing his lips together. “…The pornography. I know you’ve seen it.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, which John took as a confirmation. He sighed. “That isn’t evidence for me lying to you. Not at all. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

The snort Sherlock gave was ugly, and practically echoed in the otherwise quiet room. John sighed in return.

“For _God’s sake_ —”

“You want to be penetrated, you _crave_ it. That’s what you need, and I don’t have the proper equipment. You bonded with me before you knew, which most would probably see as _very_ romantic but _laughably_ foolhardy, so _no one_ would look down on you if—”

“You shut up right now, Sherlock Holmes. _Shut up_. Listen to me.” John closed the distance between them, crossing the foot of warm bed sheet to wrap himself around his mate again and squeeze tight. He bit hard at the permanent bruise on Sherlock’s neck until the man was putty in his arms and his firm voice made a reappearance: “…Listen.”

“ _Mm_.”

“I _do_ want to be ‘penetrated,’ I _do_ crave it. I want _my_ omega—that’s you, Sherlock—to _fuck_ me, and I’d want that even if you had a cock turned inside-out. We’d just buy you a prosthetic one, anyway.” John had given that quite a bit of thought, as a matter of fact, when he’d discovered his fetish, long before he knew the name Sherlock Holmes. He went on. “But you don’t have a cock turned inside-out, Sherlock, you have a _gorgeous_ 3.2-inch cock that is the _perfect fucking length_. Literally, pun intended, _perfect_. I’m not a bloody size queen, it’s not about that. It’s about _you_ fucking _me_ until the sheets are ruined and I can’t remember how to speak. And _trust me_ , Sherlock, that is _very_ possible with your ‘ _improper_ _equipment_.’”

John was hard again, nudging between Sherlock’s thighs which, John was pleased to note, were moist from more than just his own leaking arousal. What he wouldn’t give for the light to be on, so he could see the blush he was sure coloured Sherlock from head to toe. This time, when he slid his hands down Sherlock’s warm chest (warm from the blood at the surface, John was sure), the omega didn’t stop him.

He closed his fingers around Sherlock’s erection and Sherlock’s legs closed around _his_ in return. John might have thought it voluntary if it wasn’t for the poorly-suppressed groan that went along with it. “Is this all right?”

“Y-yes…”

“Not exactly tantric…”

Sherlock said, “How would you know?” in a way that sounded suspiciously like, “don’t you dare stop,” and threw his body weight backwards, returning them to the centre of the bed.

John could fit his hand over the entire shaft and comfortably thumb the delicate pink head, gently pulling back the foreskin to rub where Sherlock was most sensitive. Sherlock’s sharp hips bucked once, twice, then twisted half away as the sensation crept up his spine. John’s free hand caught him and drew him back, and in doing so John earned a complete stroke between the man’s strong thighs. “ _Christ_.”

The only answer John got was an aborted gasp, a hitch in Sherlock’s throat that the omega swallowed down (which would _not_ do). John squeezed the whole of the length in his palm, snuck his little finger down to run a firm caress over Sherlock’s extended perineum. It was wet—it wasn’t “in heat” wet, but it was a damn nice showing. John swiftly rotated his wrist, pushing the tip of his finger in against Sherlock’s pelvic floor to reach his prostate from the outside. Sherlock wrenched his hips again and gasped in earnest. It wasn’t a particularly direct hit…but John was a doctor, and one quite familiar, on a personal level, with that particular area of male anatomy. He pushed a second time. Sherlock _keened_ , and John felt a fresh wave of natural lubricant seep over his cock—it paired well with the constant stream of preejaculate leaking out around his thumb (a small extra gush with each thrust at Sherlock’s prostate).

When John jabbed against the gland a third time, he also gave his omega a rough jerk. Sherlock’s entire body seemed to clench and spasm as he came with a small, infertile emission, and the pressure around John’s cock was enough to pull him over after just four thrusts. He groaned into the nape of Sherlock’s neck as he added to the maiden destruction of their bed sheets. Again, the dark frustrated him. John tried to picture the growing wet spot, and how Sherlock’s thighs might _glisten_ in the aftermath of their shared pleasure and how bloody _romantic_ was _that_ —“John.”

“…Mn?”

“…”

“Hm?”

“…I don’t know. I’ve forgot.”

He grinned into the divot of Sherlock’s scapula, kissing in a lazy triangle. “I’m here if you remember.”

Nearly a minute passed, as Sherlock became progressively more boneless under his alpha’s small, chaste kisses, before a familiar “ _oh_ ,” issued forth.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Step four was supposed to last…longer.”

“Don’t tell me you’re self-conscious about your stamina, too.”

“Stamina wasn’t meant to be a _part_ of step four…Pervert. Samael Aun Weor would be scandalized.”

John’s grin turned into a smirk. “Who?”

“ _Scandalized_.”

“Having sex with my mate is hardly scandalous. We’re just not cut out to be tantric. Don’t know how you ever thought _you’d_ be. God. Hours of just…Hours of it. Really, Sherlock? You’d be bored out of your skull after twenty minutes.” His voice was light, warm breath traveling the trail he’d just finished laying with his lips as John stretched a crick from his neck.

“I thought it was worth a try.” Sherlock retrieved John’s left hand from where it rested on his stomach, lacing their fingers together closer to the middle of his chest. “…You called it ‘sex.’”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m still a virgin.”

“If you want to be. Ridiculous concept, remember?”

“…Yes. I remember.”

They lay in silence for a while longer, until Sherlock slowly sat up. He kept a fast hold on John’s hand. “We’ll have other kinds of sex, of course. Penetrative sex.”

“Mmhm.”

“…Oral sex?”

“ _Mmhm_.”

“That could be step five.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Sherlock swung his legs off the bed and stood with a wobble. He disappeared into the toilet and returned with a stomach free of drying semen, which got pressed against John’s back as he climbed back onto the mattress. Claiming the position of the big spoon had the added effect of pushing Johninto the rather unappealing wet mess right of centre, but he didn’t have the strength to complain about it.

“Good night, John.”

John smiled. “Good night, love.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

The next day, Sherlock allowed clothing back into the equation. It would have been difficult to go to work without it.

“Remember to tell them you’ll be unavailable in approximately seven weeks.”

“Right. Yes.”

“For the entire week, I think.”

“Or ten days? If it’s been since your teen years…”

“ _Ugh_ , it shouldn’t last that long, should it?”

“No, but I want to make sure I’m here. Don’t the books say things can get…fragile?”

“If you think I’m going to require your _cuddly_ presence in bed with me for an extra three days surrounding my oestrus, you’re going to be disappointed.”

John took a slow breath, stirring his coffee until the colour was even, then stirring it more to waste some time. “…First, nothing about your ‘oestrus’ could ever disappoint me. Second, we’ll see.” He said it with an air of finality, pressing the lid onto his travel mug and lifting it as a good-bye. “I’ll see you tonight. Do some more reading, maybe.”

“I thought I might run some experiments with fitting various phallic objects down my throat.”

John had been rinsing his spoon. It fell from his hand to clatter into the sink.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that when I’m on my way out the door.”

Sherlock’s grin from where he lay reclined on the sofa was wicked, almost creepy. “You really shouldn’t leave.”

“We can’t _both_ skip out on work for two months.”

“I could come with you.”

“You _really_ couldn’t.”

His omega had sat up by then, bed sheet (a fresh one) wrapped sloppily around his chest. “Why? What if I got sick? Would I not be allowed at your clinic?”

“Do you think you’re getting sick?”

“That’s not what I asked. I’m going to need an actual answer.”

“And I’m going to miss my train. Don’t get sick. Don’t strain your oesophagus. Don’t mess up and stick anything down your trachea. _Don’t_ come by anytime but lunch hour unless you’ve actually injured yourself. I love you.”

“Hmph.”

“Sherlock?”

“ _Hmmph_.”

John reached the bottom step and his phone chimed.

_I love you, too. Ostensibly. – SH_

_Ostensibly?_

_Really. – SH_

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“Christ.” John let his coat fall out of his grip, his bag off his shoulder, and his jaw down from its proper position.

Sherlock pulled the pliable silicone penis from his mouth. His alpha’s eyes had locked onto where the toy pushed his Adam’s apple forward, tracking the movement up Sherlock’s oesophagus and out into the air of 221B. The omega cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was with a slightly hoarse voice that made John weak in the knees.

“You can’t possibly be surprised. I told you _exactly_ what I’d be doing.”

“…Yes, you did. Uh…Where did you get that?”

“I bought it today, obviously.”

“You didn’t manage to get arrested wandering around London in a _sheet?_ ”

Sherlock’s brows knit tight together for a moment, before his eyes widened and his mouth slowly curled into a smile. “Distracted by the imagery, then. Very distracted.”

“ _Hm?_ ”

“Funny thing about _clothing_ , John. When you _vest_ yourself, it’s easy to _divest_ yourself of it later. I got dressed to leave the flat. _Honestly_.”

There was a moment of silence as John gathered his wits. That _had_ been obvious, and he _was_ distracted, but who on _Earth_ could blame him? “Right. Right. Uh…You bought a sex toy.”

“Several.”

“You bought _several_.”

“I thought I ought to treat them as dilators. There wasn’t a lot of diversity in width—or “girth,” I suppose they call it—but I selected different lengths and materials. I would have gotten all the same colour, too, but their inventory was lacking and I didn’t want to wait for any special orders.”

“Of course. Why would you?”

Sherlock smiled again and gestured to the coffee table. John was able, barely, to tear his eyes away from the omega’s lips and neck to scan the line of phallic objects. There were four, including the purple one still held flippantly in Sherlock’s right hand. Blue, pink, and a second purple form, of varying sizes and opacity. The blue was the shortest, a jelly material that seemed moulded of an average omega or beta penis. John wondered briefly if Sherlock had looked for any more resembling himself. The purple toy on the table was an inch longer, opaque, and almost absurdly thick; the clear pink one was longer than that, but closer to the blue in girth; and the final jelly toy still nestled in his mate’s palm was the longest, but also the most slender.

“You realize it’s a bit insane.”

“I most certainly do not.”

A smile forced its way onto John’s pinched mouth as he shook his head. “It is. I’m bonded to a madman. And, God help me, I love him dearly.”

“There’s nothing _mad_ about gathering data. I think you’ll appreciate it, in fact.”

“I know. I know I will. That’s where the _loving you dearly_ part comes in, Sherlock.” John’s smile widened into a slight smirk, and he knelt to pick up his coat and bag, both of which were put into their proper places by the door. “But your data’s incomplete.”

“It is…” His omega set the second purple toy back in line with the others and planted his hands on either side of the collection. Leaning over the low table, he glanced up with a sharp gaze and a strong determination. “Do you want to be my first human test subject, John?”

“ _God_ , yes.”

Sherlock answered with a grin, not a particularly nervous one, John was happy to see, and swung his legs around the table to approach. “In bed, I think. We’ve already made progress there. We can continue it. We could even put the light on…What do you think?”

“What do _I_ think?” Sherlock reached him, and John all but melted into his omega’s arms, squeezing Sherlock tight as he mulled it over. “I think that even if we did that…your data would _still_ be incomplete.”

Sherlock stiffened.

“Ah-ah. Hear me out. Shush.” John ran a hand up and down Sherlock’s back, where the sheet had fallen away. He rubbed small circles in the skin, over firm musculature (impressive for an omega) and the hard bumps of Sherlock’s spine. “…Your data is incomplete because _you_ don’t know what a blowjob is supposed to feel like. Not really. You’ve got empirical evidence for how _giving_ it feels, but not receiving. Don’t you think that’s a gap that needs filling?”

“…Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Good. Bed?”

“Mm.”

John hugged Sherlock again, tight, and tugged him down to kiss his cheek. “If you don’t like it, we’ll stop, but I think that’s a pretty slim chance.”

“If I don’t like it, we’ll _switch_.”

“…Fair enough.” He smirked and repeated the tug-and-kiss, pulling Sherlock to their bedroom right after. It was the most fun he’d had flipping a light on in decades.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

When Sherlock Holmes didn’t like something he would protest, vociferously…Unless he thought John liked it, in which case he would protest in a slightly more concise manner using specific points in order to prove why John’s opinion was the incorrect opinion to have. If Sherlock thought John _really_ liked it, he might manage to hold his tongue for upwards of an hour—occasionally the length of a feature film. What followed, when the floodgates broke, would be a diatribe against every plot-hole and tired cliché, or other flaws in whatever he’d managed to put up with using his limited supply of saint-like patience.

But if Sherlock thought John _loved_ something, John might never find out their opinions differed. That was what worried him. He didn’t want some terrible, misplaced martyr complex having Sherlock thinking he had to suffer through a sensation he didn’t enjoy. It was something John wanted to make very, very clear.

He had Sherlock lie on his back, then slowly unfolded the crumpled white bed sheet like he was opening a present (and he was, in a way). John took in the full frontal view of his mate [aroused]. A light dusting of pink trailed over Sherlock’s chest. His nipples were interested, his cock more so.

“Gorgeous.”

The blush grew deeper.

“…I love you. I love you with all of this, and without it. Remember that, all right?”

“Yes.”

“And…I am _really_ looking forward to putting my mouth on that _perfect_ cock there. But. If you don’t like it, if there’s _anything_ about it that makes you uncomfortable, Sherlock, you _tell me_. Yeah?”

“ _Yes_.”

The omega’s hips rolled upward in a gentle arc, at least twice as eager as John had been expecting. He grinned and set his hands on either side of Sherlock’s groin, circling over the hard pelvic bone with his thumbs. “You’re starting to get into this, aren’t you?”

A scoff, or near enough to it, worked its way out of Sherlock’s throat. He surged forward again, pushing into John’s warm palms. “Don’t say it as though you’re not pleased.”

“You know I am. I’m happy for you. I’m happy you like it.” John let his thumbs sweep closer to the middle, working over pale skin in a feather-light massage, getting nearer to the line of sparse dark hair that trailed up and down his mate’s abdomen.

“And you’re happy to benefit from the situation.”

There was a smile in the tone, but John glanced up to make sure there was one on the lips, too. There was. He matched it. “Ostensibly.”

John got himself on the bed, knees straddling Sherlock’s calves as he kept his hands in place, still stroking slowly closer to the prize. He dropped down to kiss his mate’s stomach, then the right side of his abdomen, the left. John swept his hands to the tops of Sherlock’s thighs and let his lips follow each path as Sherlock’s breaths began to come faster. He felt a small shiver through his mouth and savoured it.

“When…?”

“That’s kind of the point…”

Still, John supposed too much teasing wouldn’t set the right mood for their first time. He planted a few lazier, open-mouthed kisses in the sharp valleys of Sherlock’s hip bones before he centred himself and let out a long, warm sigh over the omega’s straining erection. He looped his thumb and index finger loosely around the base and held it, then pressed the flat of his tongue to the head.

“ _Ugh_ —!”

He waited for a word, any word, to say _yes_ or _no_. Sherlock seemed to be having trouble, breathing heavily in short bursts and trying to keep his hips under control. When he finally regained the presence of mind to speak, he used his rather vicious tongue to ask, “Why the _fuck_ have you stopped?”

So John went on.

John licked up the entire length of it again, short but sweet, and kissed the underside. Once Sherlock’s hips were rocking steadily, consistent in their nonverbal request for _more_ , John smirked and moved on to the next tier.

He took Sherlock entirely into his mouth and sucked—softly, at first, to get him used to the sensation. It didn’t appear to make a difference. The omega groaned and bucked hard and managed to tickle the back of John’s throat. He swallowed and the sound Sherlock made was heart-wrenching. And wrenching in a few other places, too.

Suddenly a large hand was on his head, scrambling to get a grip in his short hair. John regretted having it cut, though it wasn’t as short as he’d once worn it. Sherlock pushed him down, lips trying to form the words for what they wanted to request and failing miserably. They only got so far as, “ _John_ ,” and “ _please_.”

John’s fingers moved away, squeezing the sides of Sherlock’s hips as they freed up the space around the petite cock. He swallowed it down again, tongue laving over the delicate skin of Sherlock’s perineum at the same time. John pulled back and chuckled at the betrayed look that flashed over his mate’s face. He dove back in a bit lower, getting his hands up and under Sherlock’s arse to lift and _slightly_ spread and—

“ _Oh!_ ” “Oof!”

The kick in the gut was worth it. It hadn’t been on purpose, anyway. A pale calf had jerked out from under John and struck him on the way to his shoulder, but better the stomach than the groin. He went ahead and tapped Sherlock’s other leg, too, until it had joined its sibling in parallel on either side of John’s head. Sherlock was panting again, face flushed high.

“I…I didn’t do any research on… _mngh_.”

“Important part of oral sex. Did you want me to…?”

“ _God_ , yes.”

The omega’s strong legs squeezed John gently about the neck, drawing him in, and wasn’t that just irresistible.

He leaned forward and tilted Sherlock’s hips, circling his mate’s wet entrance with the tip of his tongue. The action elicited a wavering moan and a muscular quiver. The scent of it was maddening, heady and complex. It reminded John of staring deeply at a tessellation. Beautiful, and compelling on a biological level, but distressing at the same time. Like _l’appel du vide._ There was no one to stop him from jumping. In fact, John rather thought Sherlock might encourage it. He gave in, then, to the call of his alpha hindbrain, and relinquished himself to acquiring every possible scrap of his omega’s scent…Mostly by way of lingual manipulation. John reached deep into his mate’s body with his tongue, caressing the lubricated walls as they fluttered in confused, bittersweet agony from the sensation. Sherlock’s cries were stifled, John would guess by a trembling hand. He pulled back enough to peek and was validated. While he was able, he said, “I’d rather hear you. Your amazing voice.”

Sherlock’s hand slammed down to fist his unwrapped bed sheet, and when John put his mouth again at the tender place between pale cheeks, Sherlock sang out at full volume and came.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“…You don’t seem to mind ‘taking charge.’”

John blinked back into awareness, half-asleep and half-erect. Sherlock had gone more or less limp after their earlier activities, and John was happy to wait his turn. He had, however, expected his nap to be interrupted by Sherlock’s mouth doing something _other_ than talking.

“I…what?”

“Sexually. You’ve been very dominant, sexually, in the last week, despite your admission about craving _being_ dominated.”

The gears turned slowly in John’s head, realization dawning. He rubbed his eyes with a clean section of sheet since he didn’t trust his bare palms. “Well. People can like both. And I wouldn’t really call it _domination_ …Leading, maybe. Have you felt, er, dominated?”

“No. I’ve felt led.”

“…Good. Confusion solved?”

“Mm.”

John took a deep breath. “It’s just not all black and white. This…alpha and omega thing, it doesn’t have to be the be-all, end-all of a relationship. And it’s kind of stupid, besides. I mean, there are all these stereotypes and they’re not even _mostly_ true. Look at how many people assume you’re my alpha. Why, because you’re _taller?_ ”

“Are you always going to be sore about that?”

“I’m not sore! I was never—…It’s just an example. It’s like you’re always saying, Sherlock, with the seeing and not observing. One sniff and they should be able to tell, but they don’t bother.”

“You want people to sniff us?”

“…No. I want them to leave us alone.”

The light was still on. Neither of them had felt the urge to get up to extinguish it. That suited John fine. It meant that when Sherlock’s face brightened in a rare grin, John got to see every beautiful wrinkle. His omega shifted closer, leaning their heads together. “Me too.”

“Good,” John said again, quietly.

They stayed together for a few minutes, breathing settling into a tandem rhythm, arms relaxing around each other. John thought he might fall back asleep until Sherlock broke the silence:

“I’d like to put your cock in my mouth now.”

“…Yeah. All right.”

And then John was on his back, lips dry as he watched Sherlock unbutton his rumpled shirt. He wet them. The shirt went, then his vest, then his belt. Sherlock glanced up for approval after each article of clothing ended up on the floor. John couldn’t nod fast enough. The omega tugged down his alpha’s trousers and stripped off his socks in the same movement and John nodded, but when the same elegant hands slipped under the elastic waist of John’s navy boxer-briefs, and the same otherworldly eyes looked up, questioning, he didn’t. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in an instant, then smoothed itself out. His mouth curled with understanding, and he leaned down to kiss the soft curve of John’s stomach.

The alpha hummed, eyes falling shut. Foreplay was something Sherlock had to learn, but he was a quick study. He avoided the bulge of John’s erection, already coaxed back to full hardness, and instead nuzzled at his hips and thighs and just below his navel. It reminded John of Sherlock’s usual scenting habits…And he knew he’d never be able to endure an innocent scenting again without thinking of where it could lead. To think, it had been cock-teasing _before_ …

“Ah!” John twitched against a firm cheekbone, legs beginning to burn with the effort to stay still when all his body wanted was to grind itself into Sherlock’s face. He could blame it on alpha hormones…but that was not how John Watson approached biological urges. Instead, he whined a bit and grit his teeth, and tried not to damage his cervical vertebrae nodding when his omega looked up for permission to go farther.

Sherlock seemed pleased by the level of _’ruined’_ he’d achieved in just a few minutes. His expression was so supremely smug, John considered the possibility of willing his arousal away. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough will in all of human history to accomplish it. Not when Sherlock Holmes had your pants around your ankles and then took the time to bloody _fold_ them when every other fucking item of your wardrobe had ended up in a wrinkled heap. John let his hips surge forward in the same way Sherlock’s had, a wordless plea. He had no idea what he’d been thinking, teaching even one tiny lesson on _anticipation_. It would be the death of him.

Finally, his pants (his _folded_ pants) were dropped atop the rest of his clothes and Sherlock returned the bulk of his attentions to kissing a path from patella to pelvis.

“ _God_ , Sherlock…”

“Too much?” And then those eyes were looking up at him again, not just with curiosity and eagerness but with a touch of _worry_. Concern for him, concern for Sherlock’s own actions.

“Mn…” It was a hideous crossroads. To say yes led down the path to what promised to be a mind-blowing rendition of the Sherlock Holmes’ brand of oral sex, “how it should be done.” However, the same yes could cut Sherlock off at the knees when it came to confidence in sexual teasing. John had to be honest with himself. For the greater good. He groaned, and it wasn’t entirely in pleasure. “ _No_. It’s not too much.”

“Ah. Fantastic.” And the worry fell away into a little smirk.

John had the all-too-common feeling that he’d just been played. _You bastard_. He was about to voice as much when Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped themselves around the slightly swollen base of his cock, and any offense he’d taken mystically disappeared along with each inch of himself that disappeared into Sherlock’s mouth and throat.

“ _Christ_. Oh, God, Sherlock.”

Pale eyes turned up, and John felt like he was stargazing. He drew his wits back as best he could and returned his mate’s stare, tried to read it. There was confidence, but it was wavering; there was a tiny twitch in Sherlock’s brow, then some furrows, but the moan that broke through John’s thoughts and out his mouth seemed to smooth the lines away.

His hands found Sherlock’s wild hair. John was grateful for it, since he didn’t seem to be wholly in control of any of his limbs. John smoothed a few errant curls down with his palms and tried to focus on being passive, receptive. Sherlock might have trained for this—which was utterly ridiculous (he loved it)—but very few training regimens, if any, could make choking more pleasant. John kept his hips as still as possible. He couldn’t contain the trembling shocks that kept his muscles quivering, though. Every small push upward served as the words of praise his throat was too busy moaning to form.

He gave Sherlock’s head a feather-light push to get the man’s attention mid-groan, still straining against the urge to buck and writhe.

“Mm…?”

“I’m…Sherlock, I’m—…”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he moved suddenly forward on his mate’s behalf. He forced another healthy inch of John down, long fingers hooked around the base of the alpha’s half-swollen knot. John was barely able to blurt out another unheeded warning before he jolted and tensed, orgasm sending his brain into a tail spin.

Sherlock showed no sign of stopping, and though John appreciated the enthusiasm, he had to lace his fingers into his mate’s dark curls and softly tug him back. It took a few seconds for Sherlock to get the picture. He primly wiped his wrist over his mouth and swallowed a final time, eyes darting over John’s face.

“Was that—”

“ _Yes_. God, yes. It was perfect.”

His eyes stopped the erratic movement in favour of crinkling in a smile, nose slightly scrunched. “Good thing I had practice.”

“Hah.”

“…That rumour, about pineapple…is that actually true?”

“You’re a graduate chemist.”

“It seems rather more biological.”

“Mmmmm.”

John patted his chest until Sherlock got the message and crawled back up the bed to lie there. The covers were pulled next.

“…So?”

“It’s true for some people. Not just pineapple, but most fruits. Vegetables. Or fruit and vegetable juices. Lots of water. Conversely, low hydration, lots of red meat…Not so nice. But it also varies from person to person, just generally. Was it not good?”

“Didn’t exactly taste it, to be honest.”

It was too soon to even think about another round, but his cock gave an appreciative twitch at the memory regardless. John gave a lazy (and delighted) chuckle and pulled the blanket tighter. “I really hate squash, though. Can’t imagine actual pineapple juice would be any better. Pineapple fried rice is all right.”

“I was only curious if it was true. You can’t think I actually care.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled, face tucked against his alpha’s shoulder.

“Mm. Let me know if that changes…Ah. For interest’s sake…Will we be doing…either of those things again?”

“…”

John felt the pull of Sherlock’s lips as he grinned against bare skin.

“Yes. Yes, both of them, I think. Or _all_ of them, as it were.”

“Ah. Well…Good. Very good.”

“…I’m not sure what I’d like to do next.”

“Hopefully ‘sleep’ is somewhere on the list. Or dinner.”

“And what order would be preferred?”

John’s eyes were heavy, and the first word was on the tip of his tongue when his gut gave a little attention-whoring gurgle.

“…Well, then. We can call something in. You nap.”

“Climax does something spectacular to you, you know…Thai? I’m wanting that rice now…From Wild Ginger?”

“I meant I’d bring you your phone.”

“Right.” He smirked as Sherlock pulled away, cocked a brow when he paused, then melted into a smile as his mate descended again to press soft lips to his scar.

“…John.”

“Mm?”

“I love you. Very much.”

“…I know, Sherlock. I love you, too. Very much.”

“…Good.”

Sherlock kissed him again, gently, then left the bed and ghosted out into the hallway. John was asleep before he got back, and despite that, John woke up some time later to a sweet, fragrant smell in the kitchen.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

The next several days passed without incident. John went to work, Sherlock conducted research, John came home from work, Sherlock conducted experiments, and by the end of the night they both ended up content, sleeping (more or less) in each other’s arms. It was the same domesticity that John had always enjoyed during their lulls between cases, only with the addition of various forms of sex. And a lot more kissing.

Sherlock had stayed true to his word of kissing John whenever the spirit took him. John got kisses in bed, while he was still dead asleep (which, obviously, didn’t last). He got kisses in the toilet, at the edge of his mouth while he was brushing his teeth, ambushed while he was getting out of the shower. He got kisses on the head while he sat reading the paper, and kisses on the shoulder if they sat abreast on the sofa. He got a kiss, once, on his knee, when Sherlock had crouched to pick up a leaf of note paper which had fallen out of a book he’d been thumbing through. He got a very traditional kiss on the hand (well, perhaps not so _traditional_ ) one night when Sherlock had sat him down with a glass of red wine and a candle in an experiment on cliché romances. John was starting to wonder if he’d get kisses on his feet—he took to washing between his toes more carefully, and put on fresh socks each morning, just in case.

The kisses to his feet never came, but Sherlock _did_ sit them down face to face and press their soles together one evening.

“Feels sort of like yoga.”

“It’s a mental exercise.”

“Hah, well, if you ask anyone who practices yoga…”

“John, _please_. Concentrate.”

He wet his lips and nodded, rolling his shoulders a bit and nodding to centre himself. John blinked rapidly a few times and then settled into an intense stare. “Right. On what?”

“On _me_. Obviously.”

“I always concentrate on you.”

“You—Hm. You…Really?”

“Of course.”

“…” Sherlock’s head slowly tilted, eyes narrowing as he adopted a common ‘ascertaining the truth’ face. He frowned. “Why?”

“Because I love you.”

“…Oh. Of course.”

They sat for a few minutes in silence, until John wiggled his toes against Sherlock’s and broke it. “The folded towel is great and all, very thoughtful, but the floors _are_ wood, and my arse _is_ going to get sore. Maybe let me in on the _point_ of this mental exercise…? That could move things along.”

“I was reading about nonsexual bonding rituals for mock-mated beta pairs. One article mentioned performing amateur acupressure, and meditating together. I suppose it’s similar, in ways, to the Tantrism. Debacle that _that_ was.”

“I enjoyed it.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled into a smirk that was quickly extinguished. He sniffed. “I didn’t say I didn’t.”

John grinned in return. Then gave the slightest wince. “So…Bonding rituals for betas. I don’t really…?”

“We’re mated in the sense that we’re bonded, but not… _mated_. That’s very uncommon.”

“It is a bit.”

“It is _very_. Under 5% of mated pairs bond without any prior or concurrent penetrative sexual contact, arranged bonds notwithstanding.”

“Is that ‘very’ uncommon, then?”

“ _John_.” Sherlock put an end to the protest by curling his toes over his alpha’s. It actually sort of hurt, on top of being slightly bizarre, which was enough to half-stun John into holding his tongue. Sherlock went on: “What I’m _trying_ to explain is that, on a physio-emotional level, we aren’t nearly so advanced as most couples. Not even some _beta_ couples, and they don’t have nearly as many biological advantages.”

John managed to liberate his feet and rolled his ankles before he placed them back sole-to-sole with Sherlock. “Biological advantages for…what, exactly? Intimacy?”

“Yes. Intimacy, closeness, _love_. Whatever you’d like to call it.”

“You don’t think we’re as in love as…other couples.”

“No. That’s not it.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

The omega’s lips went white as he pursed them, hands folded tight in his naked lap. “Neither of us could _possibly_ know how any arbitrary measurement of our love ‘stacks up’ against anyone else’s, so I certainly don’t see a point in thinking about it. I love you, John Watson, and as you so recently assured me, the feeling is mutual. That is enough. I will not prescribe to any sort of _quantifying_ of that love. What I _am_ willing to quantify is the number of highly emotional situations in which we have found ourselves, throughout our relationship.”

“Like nearly being blown up at a swimming pool.”

“Like nearly being blown up at a swimming pool, yes.”

“That’s a bit heavier than meditating with our feet…doing whatever they’re supposed to be doing.”

“…I agree. But we weren’t bonded then.”

“And you’d rather meditate with the feet-thing than nearly be blown up a second time.”

“I thought the meditating was worth a try. As a substitute.”

John stretched his legs out to push against Sherlock’s, leaning back a bit for better leverage. “I still don’t understand. Why do you want more…emotional events? What does it matter?”

Sherlock’s lips pursed again, just briefly, and there was a twitch in his laced fingers that John read as embarrassment. Or anxiety. Or maybe just an itch that needed scratching.

“My… _heat_ …will be…an extremely emotional time. For both of us.”

Anxiety, then.

“I don’t deal with emotions often, or…particularly _well_ , as you know. I felt like maybe I could use some…practice. Just practice.”

John bent forward again, chest tight, and reached out for Sherlock’s hands. It took a calculated cock of his eyebrows to convince his mate to loose the death-grip he had on himself, but soon Sherlock’s large hands were fit delicately into John’s own. “We can practice all you want, Sherlock. We’ll practice _every_ day. So we don’t get overwhelmed.”

A measured sigh shook his omega’s shoulders.

“Just…Maybe we can sit down and do a bit of brainstorming about _how_ to practice. Because my arse really _is_ getting sore, and if my arse is sore, we’re going to have to edit the bedroom schedule.”

The sigh metamorphosed into a quiet laugh, Sherlock nodding. “It’s really not a schedule…More like guidelines.”

“Guidelines of when you want to plow me.”

“ _John_.” The laugh turned into a cackle before Sherlock was able to stifle himself. He sighed again, brighter, and drew his knees up to his chest.

John’s feet felt a bit sad to be suddenly without their partners, but that sadness was vastly overcompensated for by the joy he felt watching Sherlock try to hide his blush and tamp down his grin. “…You’re beautiful.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

John flashed a smirk, half-cocked, as he pushed himself up off the towel-covered floor and turned his back. The smirk faded for a moment as he clenched the muscles in his (yes, very sore) arse and gave the bare skin a rub to ward off unpleasant cramping. When he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock with words on his tongue, however, the smirk returned full-force. Sherlock had torn his eyes away at the last possible second, which was about two seconds too late for John _not_ to notice. “Enjoying the view?”

His omega’s blush came back with a vengeance, and brought with it a huff of indignation. “Perhaps I was.”

“You’re allowed to, you know.” Sherlock looked up at him from the floor, and John allowed himself to bask in the temporary height advantage. It was alpha instinct at the core, he was sure, but it still felt nice on occasion. John cleared his throat. “If the schedule’s actually just _guidelines_ …We could…move some things around. We could move some things…up?”

“…We could.” Sherlock’s eyes had hardened to an icy, almost predatory stare. It wasn’t a challenge. It was intrigue.

John wet his lips and glanced toward the bedroom. The hair at the back of his neck was standing straight up. The alpha in him wanted to rebel, to turn the tables and become the hunter, but the majority of him was perfectly fine with the idea of being preyed-upon. “I thought you might be interested, since you’re having such a good time scoping out my naked arse, and all. Maybe you might want to…look a bit closer.”

“Look?”

“Heh.” John’s own eyes, soft and warm, darted again to the hallway as he gently shook his head. “Look and touch. And…other verbs, as you think of them.”

It was finally Sherlock’s turn to smirk, sending a tiny shiver down John’s spine. “Plow?”

A quiet, “ _fuck_ ,” escaped the alpha in a gust of breath.

Sherlock’s smirk widened. “If you’d really like to.”

“If we don’t, at this point, Sherlock, I think I’d die.”

“Drama queen.”

“Says _you_.” John tracked his omega as he carefully unfolded on the floor and stood up. He looked as hard as John was, his small cock straining forward and getting flushed at the tip. It was brilliant to be wanted. It was something else entirely to be wanted by Sherlock Holmes.

“…Says me.”

John wet his lips. Sherlock watched him. The smirk had faded, and an animalistic gaze had replaced it. Suddenly and swiftly, John’s legs carried him to the bedroom. He could hear his mate behind him, stalking along behind, bare foot-falls slapping quiet on the wood, and every step made John’s heart beat faster. When he reached the side of the bed and turned, his pulse was nearly in a range to make him dizzy. Sherlock was _there_ , upon him, and John (though he would deny it after the fact) _squeaked_.

“You…You’ve…” He stopped and took a deep breath, blood rushing in his ears. “…You’ve really got a handle on this role-reversal thing, haven’t you?”

“No idea what you mean.”

“Hah. Sure you— _mn_ …” Sherlock initiated the kiss, and escalated it from chaste to burning. John might have been shocked by the change in attitude, the forwardness, if he hadn’t been busy being so damned pleased.

Their bodies pressed against each other from stem to stern, hormones stirring with pheromones stirring in response.

His mate’s mouth wasn’t enough, John wanted more. He pushed closer and Sherlock pushed back. He pushed again…and he wound up on his back on the bed, staring up at a flushed omega with an unsure expression.

John swallowed. “…You’re doing everything right, Sherlock. Everything.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath.

“It’s the truth. It’s so good. All of it is perfect.”

“John…”

“Fuck me, all right? I want…Please. I know you’ll be perfect. You’re so clever, you’re such a fast learner, you… _God_ , Sherlock, touch me at least!”

And then there were hands on him. One was planted on his chest, near his scar and trailing to the side. The other was on his obliques, moving down. John blew out a slow, shaky sigh. He could smell the musk from both of them hanging in the air, Sherlock’s arousal a sweet, heady note amidst his own much more familiar scent. “Oh…”

John scrambled across the bed so Sherlock had the space to climb up. His omega righted them both toward the headboard, handling John’s smaller body like an expert, like he was posing a model. It felt practiced. It felt controlling. It felt _good_.

“I…I…—Oh, God.”

Sherlock’s touch faltered and John shook his head almost violently. “No. No, don’t stop. It’s…Don’t stop. I _want_ this. So much.” He was given one more lingering look before Sherlock went on.

He should have known the technical aspects wouldn’t be a problem. Not really. They were both smart men, they understood male-alpha anatomy and lengths and girths and slickness and Pascals. With a little bit of guidance, particularly where lubrication was concerned—“Use your…Use your own. Your…Yes, Sherlock. _Oh_ , fuck…”—Sherlock had John in position and very nearly begging for it.

And he _fucking stopped_. John tossed his head back into the mattress, tongue between his teeth. “ _Sherlock_.” He forced his eyes open, stared his mate down. John was relieved, at least, that the look on Sherlock’s face wasn’t alarm. It seemed…pensive?

“Sherlock, what is it? Tell me what…Are you all right?” Every nerve in his body was protesting that they didn’t care, that the limbic system could go fuck itselfas long as _someone_ was getting fucked, but John grit his teeth and raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock?”

“…Penetrative sex is generally the definition for losing one’s virginity. For beta males, and alphas. Most people who have a penis or other…penetrating organ.”

“…Yes?” John panted, hips straining up, trying to tilt themselves into the best submissive position, the most tempting. His alpha hindbrain had completely washed its hands of the situation.

“This could be it. For my virginity.”

“ _God_ , I hope so. I… _Mngh_. It doesn’t have to be, Sherlock. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but _please_ , for _God’s sake_ put your cock in me. _Please_ , Sherlock.” He watched his mate’s brow furrow, pupils dilate, nostrils flare. The markers were all there for intense arousal, for _bonded_ arousal, a constant exchange of fluctuating scents and sounds and emotions. “I want it so much…”

Sherlock lowered himself slowly, _painfully_ slowly, until their noses brushed together and their breath mingled between them. John didn’t say another word. He listened. His heart felt like a metronome on the highest setting, but Sherlock’s blew him out of the water. He didn’t speak, but he hushed. He quietly hushed them both and ran his fingers through his mate’s dark curls. Once fatal tachycardia wasn’t quite so serious a threat, John relaxed against the bed. Patience. His eyes fell shut, and a moment later there were lips against his own.

“…John.”

“…”

“…I want it, too.”

He was ashamed by his relief, but that didn’t make it any less palpable. John waited, slightly dreading that the statement might be followed by a certain hateful conjunction.

It never came.

What did come was Sherlock’s mouth, again against his, as long fingers cupped his hips and tilted them once more into position. John could smell a fresh wave of his omega’s scent enter the space between them, and he knew it meant Sherlock was refreshing the coat of natural lubricant that he’d put on his erection at John’s insistence. Sherlock then wrapped his hands next around John’s knees, tickling the underside just a bit as he tucked them closer. John clenched in anticipation.

“…Still yes?”

“ _Yes_. Yes, _God_ , yes.”

And Sherlock slid into place. There was a push, a hot pressure that John’s body resisted for just enough time to be respectful. Then all of his omega was in him at once. John didn’t know which of them moaned louder, but he knew he’d won out on length.

A heavy head crashed down into John’s shoulder. It was the only part of Sherlock’s body that could control its tremble; every limb shook with the effort to contain himself.

John clenched again, and pulled Sherlock deeper. Both of them groaned again.

“It’s…It’s everything that I wanted, hm? It’s _everything_.” He spoke toward the closest ear, and Sherlock seemed to shake his head. John shook his in return. “It is. You’re not even moving and I…and I’m… _so_ close. If you touch me, I’ll… _God_ , it’s not even funny. I feel like a teenager.” His hoarse laugh stirred Sherlock, who looked up, and when their eyes met and Sherlock saw his mate’s giddy smile, he returned it, and some of the pressure seemed to lift off John’s chest—only not _just_ in the form of Sherlock Holmes.

John laughed again, he couldn’t help it, and let his head loll back again. “ _Fuck_ me, Sherlock, you beloved _virgin_ wanker.” Said wanker snorted a laugh of his own and gave a very shallow thrust.

It was barely any movement at all. It was more of a rocking motion, really, like a gentle push.

But John had seen stars.

He bucked immediately back into the feeling, or what had been the promise of it. He swore. He flushed crimson at the heavy twitch his cock had given, and at the small pool of fluid it had leaked unceremoniously onto his stomach already.

Sherlock simply looked bewildered.

“ _Ah_ …I said it was perfect, didn’t I? I _said_ it, Sherlock… _Mn_. You have… _got_ to learn to believe me. _Hah_.”

“I think you’re familiar with the phrase ‘too good to be true’?”

“And I think _you’re_ familiar with the phrase ‘Sherlock Holmes, _bugger my arse already_.’”

His omega’s nose wrinkled in mock distaste. His grip tightened at John’s knees. “Such a demanding alpha. Maybe I’ll just never move. Maybe I’ll stay here until my heat comes, and I’m leaking down the backs of my legs.”

“ _Christ_. Oh. _Oh_ , you’d better not.”

“Why? What would you do to me, John Watson?”

“If you don’t want to do the work, Sherlock, _I will_. I swear to God. I will ride you like a fucking _professional_. I’ll… _Fuck_. Fuck, Sherlock, I _can’t_ …” He couldn’t think, he could barely speak, John’s entire world seemed to have pin-holed down to the three-inch cock nestled right up against his most sensitive spot, the constant promise of imminent pleasure with a constant denial of delivery. He bucked his hips hard enough that Sherlock slid out, and when John caught sight of an embarrassed sort of shock on his omega’s face he growled and refused, directly, to let it take hold. He forced his alpha side out from the depths of its retreat, drew up a commanding breath. “Put that back in me, Sherlock. _Now_.”

And so it was done.

They fell into as punishing a rhythm as they were able, rocking firmly, or thrusting together in fast, jerking motions. Every stroke seemed to drive John half mad, turning his universe upside down and then righting it again as the spots in his vision faded away.

John wasn’t sure if it had lasted one minute or sixty, but he knew that he’d loved every microsecond, and when he reached his peak and came cresting, painting his release nearly up to his clavicle, he pulled Sherlock in close so he wouldn’t slip away ever again.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

If recurring experiences were anything to judge by, Sherlock had enjoyed losing his penetrating-partner virginity. He’d had John over ten more surfaces before the week was up, not limited to the spare bed upstairs, the kitchen table, the kitchen counter (both promptly washed), his chair, John’s chair, the sofa (“They’ll need dry-cleaning, all of them.”), and the bathroom floor. John had loved every second of it…Except, perhaps, the seconds that included describing the upholstery jobs to the furniture cleaners, all of which were mortifying despite how common they had assured him that sort of mess was with “passionate” bonded mates.

After sitting on damp fabric three times throughout the day, John finally settled into his clean, _dry_ chair with the paper. Sherlock had been stretched out on the sofa for hours, apparently unbothered by the clammy chill. When the paper rustled, his eyes opened. “Five weeks.”

It took John a moment to understand. He nodded. Then, since open eyes didn’t actually mean Sherlock was looking at him, he said, “Yep.”

“We should do it before then, obviously. My…Your penetrating me.”

“If you’d still like to, yes.” John saw Sherlock sit up in his peripheral, so he raised his head. His omega was frowning, quite severely.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. We can do it before then, if you want to, still.”

“Why ‘ _still’?_ Why would I change my mind?”

“…I don’t know, Sherlock.” Pale legs swung off the sofa and John grimaced at the clear demarcation of dry fabric and still-damp silhouette where Sherlock had slowed the process with his presence.

“Yes, you do. You think you do. Why would I change my mind?”

John blinked. His omega had stepped over the coffee table and crossed the room in just two long strides. They were almost forehead to forehead. He tilted his head very slightly, as if to shake it, then stopped. “…Why did you want to do this in the first place? You never told me.”

“I asked you first.”

“But I should have asked you three weeks ago.”

“Irrelevant.”

The journal got tossed aside as John rose to the challenge, letting his hackles up and leaning forward until they _were_ touching, and Sherlock had to step back. He sniffed. “I’ll answer you first, then. I think you’d change your mind because _I think_ that three weeks ago, you were worried that we weren’t right for each other, and God knows how you could get _that_ deduction wrong, out of every fucking deduction you’ve _ever_ made.”

“I—”

“—No, you said I should answer, and I will. I think that _you thought_ that our bond was weak, or wrong, or too abnormal, or whatever you thought, and the only way to ‘fix’ it was with some sort of traditional sex-magic _hokum_ of going through a heat together. Did you read about it the same place that someone suggested _White Tantrism?_ Honestly, Sherlock.”

“ _I_ —”

“I am not finished.”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“…And I think you might have changed your mind, because now, you know the truth, you know you doubted us for no reason at all—and that’s _fine_ , Sherlock, doubts _happen_ , I wouldn’t be angry if that were the case—and I _know_ you stillget overwhelmed by it, by the physical, by the emotional…just all the _feelings_ …And I knowyou’re nervous about going through heat. You could lose control, and you don’t like that. I told you at the very start that it doesn’t make a difference, Sherlock, and I will swear to _anything_ that would be significant to you that that is _still_ the case. Oestrus, no oestrus, I love you. The end. Post-script, it would be nice if we could keep up with the buggery regardless of your decision.” John took a breath. “…Now. What did I get right? Anything?”

“…Most of it. I…You might say I’m impressed.”

“Oh?”

“ _You_ might…”

They both smiled, slightly, but both smiles faded soon after. Sherlock stood and John sat in silence, time softly passing by as Sherlock considered the options and John considered picking the paper back up.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Like a statue coming to life, Sherlock blinked and gasped. “John?”

“Kitchen. Just here.” And he’d had a Hell of a time getting out of his chair with Sherlock looming there, too. He was leaning against the counter with a re-heated curry. The smell of cashew paste and coriander wafting through the flat. “…Made a decision, then?” John watched his omega’s head rock slowly up and down. “…And?”

“…No. I don’t want to. I’d rather go back on the suppressants.”

“All right.”

“A lower dose.”

“All right?”

“And I still want you to fuck me.”

John set down his dinner so he wouldn’t drop it on the floor, or all over their nice clean counter. “You’ve thought about it a lot.”

Sherlock smiled with half his face. “Well. You seem to enjoy it.”

“Heh…” John wet his lips and glanced at the floor between them. It didn’t help things to still be nude. “If you’re sure. Just say when, Sherlock. When, and how, and…Whatever. Whatever you want, like I said before.”

“…Now. And with your fingers, first.”

Time seemed to stop. When it restarted, John was already halfway to the bedroom, korma forgotten by the sink.

Sherlock joined him promptly. His omega’s long arms wrapped around him tight from behind and Sherlock’s mouth landed square on John’s bond bite.

“ _Oh_.”

The flood of pheromones was immediate and it had Sherlock shivering as he released his mate’s neck. He bared himself, dropping one shoulder, and John returned the favour. A lazy approach to foreplay, perhaps, but John couldn’t find it in himself to complain. He scented his mate on the way off, pulled in two lungfuls of intoxicating _desire_.

John soon found himself in a familiar position, lying on the bed, knees up, Sherlock between them, a clever tongue that grew bolder every day finding its way down his throat. But it was a different position, too. John was hard and he was wanting, but he was anything but submissive. Sherlock had woken every bit of secondary sex in John’s body, every fibre of alpha. John wasn’t winning the grapple; he wasn’t trying to. He moaned into the kiss and encircled Sherlock’s chest. One of his legs shifted to slide between his mate’s, to press up with a muscular thigh.

Sherlock rolled his hips down, grinding his meagre (but eager) length against John’s offered appendage and making the skin slick with his body’s lubrication. They moaned in harmony until John recaptured Sherlock’s lips.

The kiss ended only when Sherlock gasped and knocked their skulls together, bucking hard with three quick thrusts. John’s leg was dripping by the end of it, sheets beneath them starting to look like a Rorschach test. He kissed Sherlock’s shoulder, then his collar, then teasingly close to the bond mark. “Now…?”

“Now. _Now_.” It was as close to losing himself as Sherlock was liable to get. John couldn’t imagine him in the throes of an actual heat.

John pulled his omega forward so Sherlock sprawled on his chest. He reached back and traced from the base of his mate’s petite cock to his wet, reddened entrance. John kissed Sherlock’s head as he slid his middle and ring fingers inside. The omega immediately clamped down but didn’t pull away. Like John, he pushed into the sensation, colour high in his cheeks as he panted what sounded like encouragement.

“Yes?”

“ _Yes_.”

John added a third finger and searched, stroking the inner walls and pressing lighter, firmer, _hard_ —“Ah! _Ah!_ J-John…”

He would freely admit to a dose of omega-envy. He had been blessed with a sensitive prostate, but the “fairer” secondary sex had an outrageous level of nerve endings and multiple buttons to push.

Sherlock’s hands were gripping his upper arms like a pair of medieval torture devices, but the torrent of wetness around his fingers and the snapping of Sherlock’s hips gave him the green light that Sherlock seemed to find impossible to verbalize. John had thrust in as deep as he could go without adding another digit, and still Sherlock pushed back. He kissed the black curls again, huffed the scent of the gathering sweat and the fancy product Sherlock would never admit to buying.

He felt a moist puff of air against his throat. Another. A reverberation as Sherlock’s mouth moved closer and repeated it. A word. A _plea_.

“More. _More_ , John.”

John withdrew his fingers and Sherlock moaned, finally releasing the vice on John’s biceps. Before any more words could be exchanged Sherlock was moving into place, straddling John’s hips and reaching into the sticky mess they’d made between them to guide his mate’s cock. Every touch was like a lightning strike. John put his hands on Sherlock’s waist, resting just above the man’s pelvis, not squeezing, and let him do what he wanted, anything.

What Sherlock wanted was to sink all the way down on John’s cock, so he did. The floodgates opened for the alpha of the pair. He’d managed to remain reasonably stoic until that point, not wanting any begging or swearing to egg Sherlock on into something he hadn’t planned. Now, he cursed everything that came to mind and all but sobbed as Sherlock rode him. The stirring in the pit of his stomach was unfamiliar until exactly the point it wasn’t.

“ _Mn_ —Sherlock. Sherlock, I might…” His omega cut him off with a kiss, but acknowledged the warning by reaching down again to wrap his fingers around the swell of John’s building knot. Sherlock wasn’t in oestrus, it wasn’t necessary, it wouldn’t be the same kind of pleasant, hormone-releasing soother that it would be for an omega’s heat-wracked body, but for John it would be blissful, and it would connect them. And Sherlock wanted it badly.

The omega seemed to redouble his efforts, tensing his muscles to a careful rhythm as he impaled himself on John’s cock again and again. He relaxed as he bottomed out, each time coming slightly closer to taking the swollen base inside of him.

John felt his orgasm just on the cusp, and as Sherlock lowered himself John thrust upward and joined them, pulled over the edge by the convulsions of Sherlock’s sexual muscles and milked nearly dry.

Sherlock shuddered against him, spent at some point between pleasure and oblivion, John could only assume.

They stayed locked together for only three minutes. Sherlock kept John inside himself for another five. They remained in each other’s arms for the rest of the night. They were in love forever.


End file.
